Sunlight on a Broken Column
by rachg82
Summary: Booth, Brennan, life, friendship, love, perfection, cycles, regret, healing, and the universe. That about covers it, I think. (heh) This was by far my most well-received fic, and my response to the episode "The Doctor in the Photo."


_This was the second fic I wrote during season 6 (post "The Doctor in the Photo") and by far the best received. There are some quotes &amp; allusions which will be cited at the end as well._

Signals in the dark,  
wet feet on the pavement,  
neck regal;  
she moves.

Turning on,  
shutting down.

_Time to go_

There are 35 steps from the curb to the door.

(A shark dies if it stops swimming)

Booth would say this somehow means something. He would remind her of birthdays, and candles, and sugar-sweet wishes, &amp; stare at her with those brown eyes of his as if lessons of metaphor could somehow be conveyed by one handsome gaze alone.

As if he could fix her.

I'm not broken, Booth. I'm not broken.

1976 was a long time ago.

35 years. 35 steps.

_Life is very long_

(Metaphors shouldn't be so obvious, she wants to tell him)

There are many things she wants to tell him.

The words rattle in their cages as she sleeps.  
Her mouth is a hindrance. His ears are a hindrance.  
Their eyes leave her a brilliant fool; she does not speak the language.  
She feels more than they know.

Her lashes are dripping as she ascends the stairs.

Step.  
Step.  
Step.

His engine is still running. He needs to know she's okay. Neither of them are okay.

_Why now, Bones? Why now?_

Booth can still see her shadow trailing eastward, inky &amp; severe, as one hand shuts the door. He wants to lean toward it, hold onto it. He knows he cannot follow. He knows he cannot stay.

When one door closes, another one opens. That's what they say.  
Their door is always ajar. Their backs are to the wall.

He sits hollow, like good intentions poured into an empty cup - bottomless.  
Face deep in the water, unaware of the cold.  
The boy that was.

It takes seconds to shape a man, to teach pain, to bury spirit. Cheerful swagger &amp; self-told lies. A legacy of dirt with which to paint gold. He knows he is his father's remains, a resounding &amp; eternal echo. Generations of lives that led to his birth, to Parker, to Bones-an imprint on the back that can't be undone.

White-knuckles &amp; strength, it will be undone.

_Close your eyes, let me tell you a story_.

(Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain)

He is not his father. He will have a family. He will have a home.

A place he belongs.

Breakfast &amp; smiles &amp; promises kept.

He is not his father.

He is not afraid.

(_pay no attention_)

He will not leave.

He will not hurt the women in his life more than he already has,  
piling heartache on top of heartache.

He will do the right thing.

Take control. Make things right.

(_to that man_)

Protect &amp; serve.

That's what he does.

That's who he is.

Not a loser, not a liar, not an addict, not a monster.

Not the dad he loved-the one who winked, the one who smiled.

Two faces; one prayer. Let me be good enough.

It hurt to love him. It hurts to hate him.

(_…behind the curtain_)

No mistakes. He's not a bad man.

Not bad, not bad.

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_

(Happiness is the biggest risk of all)

At night he still cannot get warm. Her unseen presence waits patiently beside him, a ghostly companion for regret &amp; desperate yearnings.

The floor keeps dropping &amp; gravity won't reply. A good soldier doesn't ask questions.

_One foot in front of the other, keep going _

Hannah is kind &amp; light, a soft place to fall.  
His entire being wants to love her.  
It cares for her in simple ways  
and knows this cannot last.  
He stays anyway  
and is used to failing.

She is his own self-fulfilling prophecy of cauterized loss.  
He loves her because he chooses to. She is his friend.  
Is that not enough?

(Is he?)

The gratitude is overwhelming.  
It is the chain that binds him.

Numb &amp; doomed, he is hopeful. A false map in hand, he's got it all worked out &amp; knows it's wrong, but can't tell what's right. The mirror shows him a stranger. He doesn't believe it knows him anymore.

It is all too familiar a feeling to him.

In time the fall becomes a habit; the denial of joy, the happy mask. Rock bottom is the finish line, illusion is key-a lesson passed like rolls at the dinner table. Nowhere to go but up.

Lovesick &amp; impassive, Temperance Brennan stands by &amp; helps. She would follow him to the ends of the Earth if asked, unwrapping his dreams &amp; boxing the bows for safekeeping, but doubts her own humanity. An arrogant woman who believes she cannot love &amp; cannot be loved. The arrogance is a lie.

The world tells many lies.

Sometimes she believes them.  
Sometimes others do too.

Timing is everything.  
Timing is a turn of a lock, a tilt of the head,  
an ocean &amp; an escape, a goodbye and a hello.  
Lips together and words apart.  
They walked away  
because they had to.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

He misses her; he misses them.  
Bones. Her way, her skin; their talks, their grace.  
Hurt has hardened his mind-smile untended, like crops in winter.  
The time for missing has come &amp; gone.

Spring is but a dot on the horizon. The midday sun is blinding. At night they cannot see.

They are filled with high contrast &amp; confusion.  
Two myopic lovers wandering in the desert,  
well-dressed castaways in the city.

Black &amp; white, sand &amp; sky; it becomes easy to forget where one is going.

Intervals &amp; choices,  
roadblocks &amp; detours;  
one large maze.

The distance between dawn &amp; dusk.

Two heads, two lives.  
So many minutes, so much time.

To get lost on occasion is a guarantee.

He is no longer the gambler. He is a burned man, shelves stocked with salve. Scared to believe again-scars pink, not yet dressed.

Diving deep, Booth will find another way to lose himself.  
Another way to lose it all.  
He is washing it all away, gasping for her hemline like air.  
He can't stop; he can't let her go.  
She broke his heart.

He still dreams of what could've been. A phantom limb in his bed, in his office, in his life.

_Their_ life.

It was theirs once. Wasn't it?

They stand far apart now, aching to remember what they were,  
what they should be.

Bones is brave like a newborn foal.  
Still the doe-eyed scientist,  
legs shaking beneath her weight.  
Trying-she tries so hard-in her awkward way.  
Three steps forward, two steps back.  
Fighting herself, fighting the world.

(Never give up. Never surrender.)

_I got the signal, Booth_.

…too late.

She got it just a little too late.

She knows that now.

(The second hand passes quicker than her fingers can grasp. The sound of chances breaking; she should not have forgotten. Clumsy in retrospect, really. Some things never change.)

This role reversal of theirs, it is unexpected.  
She can adjust.  
Evolution, new paradigms of concept;  
she is comfortable in this terrain.  
Booth of yesterday would laugh &amp; accuse her of rationalizing romance.  
Booth of today isn't here to say one way or the other, so the point is irrelevant.

Perhaps it is for the best.

There are things she knows.  
Hannah will embrace him with life.  
Affection, understanding, &amp; love.  
Brennan's arms feel ill-equipped  
and selfish, like a stunted child.  
Like a stoic fraud.  
Her soul feels too much.

Too much light,  
too much sound,  
too much cover,  
too much joy,  
too much pain,  
too much meaning.

Head filled with thoughts.  
So many corrections,  
never the right words.  
A thousand frequencies  
and they cannot all  
possibly  
come in  
clear.

(She tries anyway)

It presses down from above;  
beautiful friction,  
details &amp; connections,  
her message in a bottle.  
The pen is mightier than the sword;  
pages are crisp &amp; clean.

Inconsistent. Misunderstood.  
She sees the truth of them.

They expect to speak in code.  
That's not what code is for.  
She tries to lie &amp; cannot.  
They sense a foreigner in their midst.

It is only a fact.  
Facts are without judgment  
and hurt all the same.

_People are mostly soft_

Dimly, her ears register the hum of Booth's engine pulling away.

He is putting space between them again. It's the right thing to do.

Faith. She has just delivered its death knell.

_Entropy_, she thinks. Things fade. Things die.  
Ceremonies exist for just such an occasion;  
no need for such melodrama.  
Reason comforts, warms like a hearth.  
She has her own traditions.

(I felt a funeral in my brain)

There are no more thoughts needed or wanted tonight.  
She knows how to do this.

The mechanics of grief,  
of memories &amp; scars,  
old photographs,  
&amp; old names.

(As freezing persons recollect the snow)

_First chill, then stupor, then the letting go_

35 years &amp; it has been so long since she allowed herself to truly feel something so small &amp; chaotic as this. Synaptic transmissions-chemical responses meant to launch a thousand ships, turn blood diamonds into pillow talk, tighten chests, nurse babies, &amp; end lives.

She is sad, but it is pure.

It is tears that aren't chased away, aches that aren't held back. She remembers. Thudding around inside her heart, she remembers.

It's good sometimes to remember.

There's a time &amp; a place for things. Files in her brain marked 'B' for Booth, 'I' for inappropriate, and 'D' for desire. Cabinets full of unmentionable information owned solely by him, locked off from &amp; protected by respectable stay-in-their-place types such as 'M' for Micah &amp; 'P' for patella.

She has long since adjusted to the Venn Diagram of lunacy his presence generates within her-letters grating against their borders with no consideration for her nerves or work habits-a daily frustration to both free will &amp; decorum. Was it really such a stretch to invite 'L' for love into the mix?

A minor asterisk hangs beside 'L' like an afterthought, like a note in a score; she can't quite define it yet. It's all right. It doesn't matter now.

She's not sure if it ever did.

No regrets. Face forward to the mirror, black-rimmed eyes staring straight ahead.  
No looking back.  
The sun comes up because the world turns,  
upside-down or not.

She has earned these tears.  
She knows they are temporary.  
The most painful things in life are.  
The same holds true for the rest.

The universe is fleeting.  
Signals to be transcribed;  
ephemeral moments,  
precious &amp; passing.

_Nothing lasts forever_

(Everything changes)

One white wash cloth &amp; four passes under the faucet is all it takes to wipe them clean.  
One trip to the laundry room is all she'll need to make the white wash cloth whiter.  
One night within four sheltering walls-breathing in &amp; out, down the line-is all her nervous system will require. Homeostasis must be restored, trembling lip to the contrary. Suit up, little soldier. Brace for dawn.

The minutes hang their head, stagnant.  
The moon won't move.  
Her eyes won't close.

35 years. 35 steps.

Nets and stars, seas of foam.  
Her mother used to read her that poem.  
She has cast her wishes &amp; looked to the heavens;  
hope is an echo in retreat-she stands solid, alone.

(A mistake)

No changies. No takebacks.

A snake eating its own tail;  
descent, destruction,  
crackling embers in her bed.

She is so, so tired.

(This is the dead land. This is cactus land. Here the stone images are raised)

She will rebuild the single wall around her heart, wrapping her home around her like a cloak.

Like a mask.

The architect of her own survival.  
She wonders if Booth will ever know the parts of her he has broken.

xxx

Another one for the books;  
Booth raises a silent toast.  
Drinking alone,  
poker chip in hand,  
his own family heirloom.

Here's to coming full circle.

Reality in his bed,  
denial in his fist,  
cold &amp; smooth.

Affectionate lies,  
painful truths.  
A taste of metal on the tongue,  
blame sits on its haunches.

Snapshots in the mind,  
toys &amp; torment.

Hannah stumbled in hours before,  
sheepish &amp; dazed,  
wide-eyed as if in mid-joke.

He appreciates the attempt at humor.

(She is nothing if not kind)

Throwing her jacket to the floor-"I think I just got drunk under the table. Metaphorically, that is." Holding one hand in the air, she is both deadpan &amp; theatrical. "As a certain Western-happy partner of yours might say."

"Tequila?"

She lands on the couch next to him in a heap. "Bourbon. A lot of bourbon."

He nods without turning his head. He remembers. Rain &amp; heat &amp; shot glasses; he remembers.

He's surprised she's still standing.

"We talked. I know you probably think I should be threatened."

He finally looks over. "Are you?"

"Should I be?"

He smiles. "No."

"Good. I'm not, anyway." She plays with the corner of his shirt. "I was in an open relationship once."

There's a record skipping somewhere, but no music playing.

_"What?"_

"That's not what I came here expecting, Seeley, but I go with what works. What I want is honesty. I don't keep secrets, and I don't play games. What about you?"

He shifts, hand setting down the glass. Why does his smile feel so manic? He wants to be honest with her. He wants to be enough. The impossible sits in front of him &amp; he will make it his job to transform it. Confusion &amp; fear are no excuse. A broken heart is no excuse. Real men carry their wounds with a steel chin &amp; a swift gait. Yesterday is done. Today is now. Regrets won't plan for tomorrow.

Someone has to clean up the mess.

His synaptic transmissions are stuck in gridlock;  
road rage is locked in the trunk.  
Desire dug a hole &amp; walked away. The shovel ran off with the spoon.  
Fingernails encased in mud, clawing at the ground,  
this isn't what he had in mind.

At the end of the day, it will be his fault.

He will declare it so &amp; mark it with a B.  
His father's voice, it carries far.  
A sniper's bullet pierces deep.

_We hold these truths to be self-evident_

"Hey, what you see is what you get. I've got nothing to hide."

(The feet, mechanical, go round)

Her eyes squint knowingly, briefly.  
She knows. She packs light.  
Holding onto moments, not men.  
Pretty face, long looks.  
She has her own story to tell.

No one ever spots her coming.  
No one sees her until she's gone.

It's all right.

"She's going to move on. Angela told her she should &amp; I agreed. Some creep hit on her at the bar tonight, wanted both our numbers. It figures." She laughs. "I don't think it'll take her long."

Booth's stomach clenches. "No, it won't." He takes her hand. "Look, Hannah-"

A kiss on the cheek stops him. "I'm tired, Seeley. Maybe more jealous than I realize yet, or want to admit, but that's not the type of thing to stop me. I meant what I said. I don't want to come out of all this looking like a fool. I love you, and I care about Brennan. I care about me too."

"You're not a fool, and it's not gonna happen. I'm a one-woman man."

There's that look again.

Across the room, a clock chimes. They both look over, surprised. There's a fork in the road between the couch &amp; the door; desert moons waxing &amp; waning in the distance.

Hannah breaks the silence first. "All right, well, I'm beyond the point of passing out. This can wait until we're both able to see straight again. You coming?"

He waves to his drink, still half-full. "Soon. Just give me a bit." One last tug of the palm, two half-smiles &amp; a nod, and the sun is set. The Earth knows.

(This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms)

_Not with a bang, but a whimper_

…a spark.

Poker chip in hand,  
eyes dark-he waits.  
He's still calling for her,  
but forgot the words.  
Across town, his lover listens,  
but cannot hear.  
They ache to receive.

To begin anew.

Architects of survival.  
Engineers of self-destruction.  
Phoenix wings of scarlet and gold;  
names for the ashes, meaning for the pain.  
The ouroboros circles the world.

Sometimes life is about taking a chance.  
Sometimes it's about playing it safe.

Sometimes it's about both.

_Brain &amp; heart, Bones. Brain &amp; heart_.

xxx

Time slides by on its belly, elbows pulling.  
A wind-up toy on a mission;  
thinking, feeling, working  
in drips &amp; waves,  
just under the surface.

Paintbrush stiff &amp; dry,  
tucked neatly inside;  
her palette is a two-way mirror.  
The cracks are growing wide.

She still remembers how to play dead.

(She is only just now learning how to live)

Temperance feels like she is drowning.  
Flipping over, she appears to float.  
Steady hands, fixed gaze,  
she is on her own.

A master of disguise, she turns within. Close your eyes &amp; run.

Nowhere to go.

_I am fine_.

Cool &amp; collected,  
polished &amp; professional.  
Fault lines prove otherwise.

(Her soul shakes beneath her feet)

These emotions are still so raw. So close to the skin. They stretch out &amp; rush in; she traps them in glass vials &amp; samples them in small doses. There is still so much to measure &amp; find. A test for every grin &amp; palpitation.

She is quick to make a decision.  
She always takes her time.  
Her brain works very fast.  
Sometimes it trips &amp; lags behind.

_She tries so hard _

They expect the world of her.  
She expects more.  
The gap is burdensome;  
the fall sends her leaping.

Disappointment keeps track from the sidelines. It knows she cannot bear to stop.

A numbness begins to take hold. It is both old &amp; new. The weight is too heavy and Atlas is sinking. She has lost her partner.

She has lost her friend.

She just wants him to be happy.  
She's beginning to find that she'd like to be happy too.

What that means, she's not quite sure yet.

It's okay.

The dark &amp; the light, the yin &amp; the yang;  
it's not clear if she's facing east or west.  
Each step descends; the light within dims.  
Her heart is warming as it cools.  
This is the way out.

She can still feel the sea salt on her skin.  
Secrets of the past,  
the present at her feet;  
she wouldn't give any of it up for a second.

The chick must hatch all on its own.  
The egg is there for its protection.

Webs of silk, weaved with care-she was never building a wall.

It was a cocoon.

35 years.

Step. Step. Step.

No rest for the weary,  
the hunter &amp; its prey.

Life. A puzzle of pain &amp; pleasure.

The point isn't in its completion.

(She is not broken. She is changed.)

xxx

"Do you ever go home anymore?"

Bones looks up. It's Cam, leaning against the door, eyebrow cocked.

She turns back to her work. "I was there this morning to change. Did Angela send you?"

"Not technically. I was rock; she was paper."

"I have no idea what that means."

"It's Friday night, Dr. Brennan. Ever heard of TGIF?"

She sits up straighter in the chair, and sighs, arches her back. "Yes. Angela wants me to somehow celebrate it for her, now that she's pregnant. Other than margaritas &amp; God, I'm not exactly sure what it entails."

"No, that's pretty much it right there. No literal thanking of God though, unless the night ends well."

"You're referring to the potential for achieving an orgasm."

Cam stifles a laugh. "Yes. Look, this has been a long couple of weeks-months, actually. Michelle is sleeping over at a friend's house for the night, Paul is visiting one of his cousins in Virginia, and _someone_ needs to treat both of us to a Girls' Night Out in style."

Walking around behind her chair, she gives it a pull. "You do realize by 'someone' I mean us, right?"

Bones gives a nod, pursing her lips. "A girls' night out? With the potential for orgasm?" She eyes her friend up &amp; down, gauging.

"Yes, but not between us. No offense."

"None taken."

Cam crosses her arms &amp; swings in to block Brennan's laptop from its workaholic partner in crime. The implied hierarchy is mostly for show, but she still enjoys going through the motions. This brilliant, bullheaded woman is so dear to her.

The chain of command has been an utter lost cause since conception-they are family.

"One: stop analyzing me. This is totally the wrong outfit for that. Two: give yourself a break. Just for one night, that's all I ask. If we get out of here, you can work your anthropological Pinky &amp; the Brain-powers on rich college kids while they form pair bonds with Captain Morgan. Now, are you in or do I have to drag you out of here?"

Bones stands up, expression unflappable. "I'll go. You wouldn't have been physically capable of dragging me though. I'd overpower you very quickly."

"Wise choice-and please, I could take you."

"No. You couldn't."

Cam shakes her head &amp; steers her by the shoulder. "Let's go, Wonder Woman."

xxx

Bones is not a girl. She is a woman. She lets Cam know this as they enter the bar.

Words matter.

(Truth matters)

"Sometimes it's fun to get to be a girl again. Figuratively speaking," Cam explains.

The fifteen year old within understands.

"I can appreciate that," Bones replies &amp; lifts up her drink for a toast. She never got a Sweet Sixteen; she still sometimes yearns for sleepovers. It means something to her that Cam returns the gesture.

"It's been nice having you back, you know. I missed you. We all did."

This catches Bones off-guard. She's not sure how to respond. The thought had never even occurred to her.

She is not someone others miss.

They miss her brain.  
They miss her hands.  
They miss her work.  
They miss her breasts.

Soft skin, round hips;  
lost eyes, sharp facts.

They do not miss her.

She is exceptional  
and mobile,  
like the wind.

Like a useful novelty.

She does not belong anywhere.

_This is how you wave goodbye_

(One by one they leave)

Standing with the outsiders, she observes from the periphery,  
defending the underdog, explaining the taboo, defining the unknown.  
She is still that little child somewhere, planning her Sweet Sixteen.  
Cyndi Lauper was right.

(Girls just wanna have fun)

"I'm sorry I didn't write-I'm sorry I left. It's what I felt I had to do. I regret it now."

"I know. I was angry with you when you first came back. I think we all were, which wasn't fair to you at all. You shouldn't regret it." Cam leans down &amp; catches her gaze. "It was what you needed."

"It's what Booth needed too," Bones replies. "I didn't expect this, however. It was foolish of me."

"It was human of you." _Why can't Booth be here right now, hearing this?_ The big, stubborn lug. Must she fix everything herself?

"I am human, Dr. Saroyan."

Cam closes her eyes. _Lord, give me strength_.

"Oh, I see what you just did." Brennan smiles proudly. "Yes, it was human of me."

"Good. So, we've established that you're human, which is a relief knowing our employees, and that emotions have rendered you fallible. Welcome to being in love. It sucks."

The instinct to hide behind denial is overwhelming.  
Instead, she merely laughs.  
It's true after all.

"Another round, barkeep!" She slaps the counter, causing the men at their right to stare.

She's like a tornado trapped inside a body. It shouldn't be possible.

Brennan likes that Cam doesn't question the phrase.

She likes a lot of things about her.

In the beginning, they butted heads.  
Two alpha females circling in the pack,  
not a good equation.

They still compete.  
Neither of them plan to change  
or expect it from their friends.  
They meet in the middle  
and deliver a firm handshake  
before dashing off like a pair of white rabbits.  
One surprises the other with an airport embrace,  
and they both hold on just long enough,  
not too close, not too tight,  
and congratulate themselves on a successful hugging endeavor.

They are just right.

"I used to say love didn't exist. That it was just a chemical reaction in the brain," Brennan adds, once their drinks are delivered.

Cam nods. "Doesn't mean you don't believe in love. My brain is going to tell me I'm drunk soon"-she raises her glass-"in conjunction with my liver, small intestine, &amp; sudden, incessant need to pee; that doesn't mean I don't feel happy &amp; uninhibited &amp; all the other emotions associated with social drinking, despite the fact that it's also the brain creating those reactions. It's only semantics, Dr. Brennan. Never let people tell you what you feel or what you should feel, least of all me."

Sucking on a cherry, she presses on. "One thing I've always liked about you is your honesty. You're true to your word-literally. It makes you blunt and, in my opinion, oddly refreshing. Scientists like us need oddness, so it works. Like Hodgins with his bugs or Vincent Nigel-Murray &amp; his…whatever he is. Don't kid yourself, though. You and I both know that there's no _just_ anything when it comes to the brain."

She pauses, lining up her thoughts. The Booth &amp; Brennan relationship is like a field of landmines, &amp; she has no interest in exiting this bar an amputee. "Listen, love is love, regardless of the language. What difference does it make if it's left unsaid or what you call it? Say it in Urdu if you want. All that objectively matters is what you choose to do with it each day, just like anything else. The results either way are potentially the same. You? You just see them more clearly than some, that's all. That shell of yours is there for a reason; you don't fool me. I'm not sure everyone knows the toll it takes to be you, and _everyone_ includes you, by the way. Somewhere along the line you got the message that you weren't compatible with love, but it's not true, Dr. Brennan. It's not. Your hypothesis was incorrect."

Brennan stares at her for a moment before replying, turning back to the bar to solemnly play with her straw. She was serious even before she could walk, even in the midst of a smile. Her wonder lies beneath, peeking through when the coast is clear. It is gorgeous to behold &amp; shown only to the lucky few.

"I find you both rational &amp; comforting." She would like very much to cry, but now is not the time. It never is. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Cam laughs a little, taken aback. "Now if only I could get Booth to talk to me."

"He won't talk to you? Since when?"

"He'll talk to me; he just won't _talk_ to me. Haven't you noticed him avoiding the lab lately?"

Bones continues to make friends with her drink. She's right.

"This is the way the world ends." She taps her glass for emphasis, staring distantly.

Cam's eyebrows pinch together, confused. "What?"

"T.S. Eliot. The Hollow Men. _The supplication of a dead man's hand. Under the twinkle of a fading star_. I told Booth that everything changes. He didn't believe me." She inhales &amp; then continues. "Cultures often believe destruction is a part of creation, not the ultimate end. There's the Nataraj, for instance. In a way, Noah's Ark. Maybe this is the end &amp; yet also somehow not."

Cam's mouth opens &amp; closes twice, as if fishing for dropped thoughts. What is happening here? Brennan quotes poetry now? Can she be convinced to leave breadcrumbs behind next time?

Waving her hand in the air-"I'm just gonna let that one go. Unless you want to talk to Sweets, maybe?"

This gets her attention. "No! God, no. I'm fine."

"When's your birthday anyway?"

Bones takes a long drink. "Why?"

"I'm gonna buy you a book of anything but poetry."

That earns her a look. Well done.

"Thank you for this, Cam. Really. Your proposal was extremely merited. Even without an orgasm, I do enjoy Fridays. We haven't even gotten to the pair bonding college students yet. Or that Captain Morgan you mentioned."

All she can do is shake her head. If she starts laughing, she'll never stop.

"And I enjoy you. Cheers." Cam raises her glass for another toast.

Bones leans in to whisper in her ear. "…I feel I should add, however, that I was making a facetious remark just now. I am actually aware that Captain Morgan is an alcoholic beverage. While frequently inept at the art of sarcasm &amp; idiosyncratic idioms of a subtle nature, Booth and I have spent many nights together in this bar. It would appear that you've just been hoodwinked."

Cam looks over just in time to see Brennan leaning back in her chair, cocky &amp; beaming.

"I feel like hugging you right now."

"Why?"

"Does it matter?"

Once upon a time, alone in the lunchroom,  
she sat. No friends, face down, mouth closed.  
Long hair like curtains, feet moving fast.  
Books tight to the chest. Don't look.

Hands that shove, mouths that spit.  
No one wants to be the freak.

Bones swallows, confidence drifting. "I suppose it doesn't." Looking up, eyes searching, she suddenly feels very small. "It's nice being a girl, isn't it? I think I would've liked it when I was one."

Cam reaches over, pulls her in. "It's never too late."

This time, Temperance holds on tight.  
Their hug is many years in the making.

Step step step.

Nets &amp; sights &amp; two little eyes.

_and a wee one's trundle bed_

Neither of them mind.

She's just right.

No changies. No takebacks.

(No need)

She is exactly the kind of person someone would miss.  
Breathing &amp; touching, laughing &amp; living,  
knowing &amp; loving. She is not separate from the rest.  
She is a friend, a lover, a daughter, a teacher;  
she too deserves joy-her own self-fulfilling prophecy,  
right from the start.

Six billion heads, none of them containing the same thoughts  
at any given second.  
It is okay to be different.  
No one is the same.

Hindu maya,  
the Theatre of the Absurd,  
Dostoevsky &amp; his leap of faith.  
Simple truths:  
_None of this makes sense_.

We do the best we can.

It's enough sometimes to just keep going.

She does not believe in an afterlife.  
This is it.  
She's not done.

_What's next?_

_xxx_

Cherry blossoms are falling  
behind Hannah's wry smile  
as she wishes him farewell.

The tears are genuine.  
The seasons are changing.

_Nothing lasts forever_

Forever means more to some than others.

The myth of permanence.  
Life in flux, atoms replacing,  
lines on the face to frame one's past;  
this is where I come from.

Isn't it beautiful?

It is nobody's fault.  
This is his decision.  
Time to man up;  
their road is proof-ridden in stone.

He is so, so sorry.

She never fully knew him.  
He wrote a script &amp; cast his role  
and never warned her of the play.

The producer of who he wanted to be,  
not who he was.  
A Pandora's Box-fairytale gifted  
to a fact-seeking journalist.

What was he thinking?

He should've listened to Shakespeare.

(All the world's a stage)

Fiction is a lie;  
hindsight is 20/20.  
The world is rarely black and white.  
The mind often is.

He did the right thing.  
He did it badly.  
He made a mistake.  
He hurt his friend.

He's doing the right thing now.

He's hurting a friend again.

All of this is true.

None of it is easy.

He is not a bad man.

White picket fences,  
three suitcases in the hall;  
they knew this was coming.  
She made mistakes too.  
He's still sorry.

Booth doesn't like to see a woman cry.  
Memories of his mother,  
of his father,  
of his brother;  
this is not him.

Bowing to the ridgeline,  
he expects perfection.  
He stalks, he hunts, he hides.  
He runs.

He won't let himself be seen.

The crown is not for him.

Shadows &amp; triggers;  
a brave camouflage,  
a skilled way to cope.

He is the caretaker,  
the guard, the partner,  
the bullet in the chamber.  
He gets the job done; the compass that points the way.  
No morality call needed.

Men trust their gut,  
salute the flag,  
follow the leader,  
honor thy mother &amp; father.

This is how it's done.

_Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Do as you're told._

(I'll give you something to cry about)

She didn't deserve it.  
None of them did.

What has he become?

"Don't blame yourself for this, Seeley. I don't plan to. No one should. None of us meant for this to happen."

He takes a deep breath. "How's that?"

She pats him on the chest &amp; rests her hand over his heart. "Love is blind."

Booth grips her hand &amp; raises it to his lips. She will never be the one. His heart will always hold a place for her.

The feeling is mutual.

Hannah smiles, not bothering to wipe away her tears. "We'll always have Paris."

He laughs. Afghanistan was no Casablanca.

"That's true."

As she turns to walk away, she tosses him back one last look. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

He wants to weep.  
Tears wait behind each cornea like prisoners in a jail cell.  
The repressed outpouring is terrifying in its power.  
Decades of pain tucked in just so.  
He can't let go now.

All he can do is nod. "I'd like that."

Disappointment keeps score,  
nips at his heels.  
He too has something to prove.

Frostbitten &amp; numb, nerves burn when first awakened.  
A buzzing in the window, there is so much to be.  
To just be is enough.  
To just be is a curse.  
To just be is a miracle.

Sit. Stop. Breathe in-four beats. Breathe out-four beats. Now, go.

_That tree is not for you, alone_

Fossils resting in the ground;  
they will be here once the sun goes out.  
A part of things like the rest;  
it is a comfort.

_The universe remembers everything_

It holds a place for him, too.  
Like a groove in a path,  
a thousand marks trailing  
into a thousand lives  
and a thousand empty spaces.

One never knows their own impact.

It is a grand systemic machine;  
patterns &amp; strangeness;  
evolution &amp; grace;  
action &amp; ennui;  
each being adapting to its environment  
physically, culturally, emotionally,  
with flaws &amp; ingenuity.

He is beginning to understand her more &amp; more as the years go by.

Nothing is simple.  
It's not really that complicated.

Serious things aren't serious.  
Silly things aren't silly.  
People rarely get it right.

Booth likes that Brennan reminds him of this.  
She lectures with clinical detachment.  
He likes that too.  
It drives him crazy  
and rolls his eyes like marbles back into his head.

He hopes she never stops.  
She is his favorite itchy sweater that never gets old.  
There is no one else he'd rather touch.

Spring is for lovers.  
Winter is conceding.  
They've sent up a flare  
and are soon to be found.

Patience is a virtue.

(They are extremely virtuous)

Visions of sugar plums, candles &amp; cake,  
milk left for Santa, a note on the plate.

_I've been good this year_

They've performed a swan dive onto two left feet.  
Spontaneity is not their forte.  
They are impulse-driven forces of nature,  
hunched over blue-prints, drawing it out.

Quick to move, slow to change.

He's still waiting for the other shoe to drop,  
still waiting for her to leave.  
It was his greatest fear all along.

Her flight left him frantic. He covered it well.  
Their world came crashing down like thunder.  
Mortar &amp; shells, shock &amp; awe,  
_this can't be happening_.  
The only thing left to do was drag away the body.

There was no wake;  
he did not expect her to return a widow.  
He made no plans to join her in mourning,  
dropping dirt over her grave,  
receiving confessions in the dark.

When did they both become murderers?

His childhood was full of _one more chance_ &amp; _this time it's different_.  
He thinks she might've had it right the first time.  
She is not a gambler. She is a scientist.  
Her heart is perfect.

His is the risk,  
open &amp; bleeding.

He is not that smart.  
Not that pure.  
Not that rich.  
Not that strong.

Damaged goods, fixed up nice.

To make up for it is a full-time job.  
There's not a boss in the world who wouldn't hire him.  
He puts his all into everything he does.  
Little brother under the covers, afraid to sleep in his own bed,  
sometimes he forgets what it all means.

She knows.

She could go anywhere, do anything, have anyone.  
Like a magician, he fooled her into staying with him for all those years.  
He pushed his luck asking for more.

It's not a mistake he wishes to repeat.

And yet.

_And yet_.

To let her go entirely is unthinkable;  
the equivalent of sawing off one's own leg.

He cannot stop thinking of her face and that car.  
Tears in the rain-it's always them in the rain.  
Driving away.

Flashing. Aching.

Her mouth.  
Her smile.  
Her eyes.

He still wants her so badly.

What if she was right the second time?  
What if they were both wrong before?

He never really believed the answer would be yes.  
He still had to try.  
It was a suicide mission from the start.

There's a beginning to every story.  
No one knows what chapter they're in.

Booth still refuses to correctly pronounce the word Maluku.

Eventually it will become a joke. Right now it just hurts,  
a stinging nettle in the bottom of his shoe.

He's been lost for so long.

She is asking him to believe.  
The old him would jump at the chance.  
The new him doesn't know.

It just doesn't know.

What does she really want?  
Will she come to her senses again?

The ceiling is still on the floor,  
and his world has not yet turned right-side up.

Three days are waiting.  
The mirror is warped.  
A soldier's burden &amp; anger pressed in;  
he does not know his own worth.

Their souls align like countries on a map,  
borders built with providence.  
Uneasy refugees tear down barbed wire-seek out streets &amp; belongings;  
these things take time.

_If you run away…I will run after you_

They are more alike than they know.

Things will reverse again before they move forward.

It is their way.

Partners first.  
Friends second.  
Lovers last.

Not necessarily in that order.

He misses being her friend.

It isn't where you start, it's whether you start at all.

Their love is an M.C. Escher lithograph,  
roundabout &amp; ridiculous,  
a cumulative masterpiece.

At the end of the day,  
Booth still cannot see,  
but he's beginning to remember  
that he has eyes.  
That's what they're for.  
And he wants out of the dark.

He knows all about steps.

xxx

Bones is alone at the bar when Booth walks in. It's TGIF &amp; Cam is late.  
Angela's at home, heavy &amp; exhausted.  
Booth looks sad.  
He wears it unintentionally.

She quickly waves him over.

"I didn't expect to see you here tonight. I thought you had Parker this weekend."

He raises his eyebrows &amp; sits down on the stool to her left. "Yeah, so did I. Instead he's in Vermont with Rebecca and the new Boy Wonder."

She frowns. "I'm sorry, Booth."

Pain reflecting back at him-he cannot bear to see that from her now. She's had enough.

"Can we talk about something else?" He crumples a leftover napkin &amp; tosses it into her empty glass, a form of distraction. He came here tonight hoping to find squints, planting cheese in a trap. One phone call later, some flimsy bait, and there'd she be. The gang back together.

Fighting the urge to scoot closer;  
the face of a nervous schoolboy.  
He is homesick for her.

Tracing her face with his mind,  
his fingers know the perfect place to rest.

"Hey!"

He attempts a smile, trying not to stare. If it were legal, if she would let him, if they weren't them-he would pull her into his lap, right here, right now. "You needed a new one. What are you doing anyway, drinking alone? Picking up dates?"

She shoots him an amused look. They both know what he's doing. "I'm waiting for Cam. We're going to thank God for Friday. There are potentials for orgasms involved, if you're interested."

He nearly chokes.

"That was a joke, Booth."

Cam appears behind him before he can respond, resting a light hand on his shoulder. "What is this? A big, hunky man in the middle of our Girls' Night Out? Aren't there rules for things like this?"

Bones smiles innocently, shrugging. "Perhaps he can help us celebrate. There'd be quite a bit of…potential, I think, inviting a Catholic. I imagine you have extensive knowledge when it comes to thanking God, don't you, Booth?"

He is sure she was sent to detention at least more than once as a child. No wonder she's got Max for a father.

Winged blue eyes are staring him dead in the face.  
He never should've taught her eye contact.  
His feet can no longer touch the floor.

_Two can play this game_.

He stares right back.  
There might not be a Cocky adorning his pants tonight,  
but Boothy's confidence is on the rise.

Cam hesitates. Something is up.

"Booth is a girl now?"

Brennan perks up at this. "As I understand it, a Girls' Night Out is a figurative expression. No one in this bar is currently a girl, technically speaking. I see no reason why Booth should not be allowed to join in."

"I am _not_ a girl." Booth's stare is decidedly male. Cam openly smirks.

"When I first dragged Dr. Brennan out for drinks, she said the same thing. You two should start wearing matching outfits."

Now they're both staring at her. She takes a seat to Bones' right, refusing to back down.

"What? Don't either of you try to act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

Booth waves for the bartender. "Barkeep! A round for my girls over here."

Cam freezes, delighted. She swivels in her seat to check if Bones has noticed the glitch as well, fully primed to give Booth a what-for in mocking he'll never forget, when she sees that the staring contest has already recommenced.

That is a smile she has never seen on Brennan's face before.

There is definitely something going on here.

A cancelled, rescheduled, &amp; unplanned event unfolding at last.

She is tempted to sell tickets.

xxx

Cam sneaks out soon after.

They don't last long.

They've lasted long enough.

Her head knocks against the door from his kisses.  
His apology is muffled &amp; ignored.  
They have brought the rain inside with them, storming &amp; wet.  
She is lightning in his arms,  
teeth &amp; tears against his neck.

She cannot reach far enough around,  
cannot be too close.  
It is strange, so strange.  
Her mouth is panting; there's not enough time.  
How could they possibly have waited so long?  
Hands stroking, legs pushing,  
this is right.

She cannot stop crying,  
cannot stop smiling.  
The feelings swell out almost unbearably;  
she is beginning to understand.

She is alive.  
She is here.  
It feels so good.  
To run &amp; come back.  
To fall &amp; stand up.

To move.

(Don't stop)

_Between the essence and the descent falls the shadow_

Lips press hidden places,  
forgive shamed transgressions.  
It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.

(I love you)

Hands clasped like old friends;  
it's what they are,  
what they always will be.

_Between the desire and the spasm_

Back to the beginning;  
beginning again.

Their ends are always a beginning.

The Earth orbits the Sun.  
The Moon circles the Earth.  
Where once there was nothing,  
everything appeared.

All things in motion,  
round &amp; round;  
there's no such thing as an end.

They will create life together.  
A home. A family.  
He will not be his father.  
She will know her true name.

_We hold these truths to be self-evident_

Choice.  
Fate.  
Chance.

It makes no difference.

Semantics, as some might say.

There is no need to line up the puzzle pieces  
and make them  
fit.

They are,  
the both of them,  
_just right_.

**Fin**.

Citations:

-The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot.

-I Felt a Funeral in My Brain, Emily Dickinson.

-After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes, Emily Dickinson.

-The Declaration of Independence.

-Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, Eugene Field.

-The Runaway Bunny, Margaret Wise Brown.

-An Adult Child's Guide To What's Normal. "The Myth of Permanence" came from this. Booth is an ACA (Adult Child from an Alcoholic or otherwise dysfunctional home), same as me, so it'd be a great book for him if he were real. To explain the gist of the Myth of Permanence, here's a quote: _For us Adult Children, finding the balance between wanting everything to be predictable and permanent and expecting everything to change all the time (no stability at all) is a big challenge._

-As You Like It, Shakespeare. This one was obvious, but whatevs. I mean, I *mentioned* Shakespeare right before-hand, hee. Plus, who doesn't know where "All the world's a stage" comes from? Come on. Don't make me turn this car around.

-This scene from Wit. I am being SO ridic considering this a quote, ha. But the thing is, I wrote the _"Time to go"_ line automatically, then went, "Hey, that's *from* something. WHERE?" and remembered it was from the clip where the main character finally dies (which makes me weep like nobody's damn business EVERY TIME, by the way. "An allegory for the soul…" Ahhhhh). So, I have to include it. Also, it's the reason I included that line from "The Runaway Bunny" in the first place. So.

-Wizard of Oz, i.e. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain."

-We'll always have Paris and the ending to Casablanca. I am SO anal to include these references here, hee. I've never even seen the movie for crap's sake.

-Alice in Wonderland. Okay, so this one was more so a reference than a quote (Cam &amp; Bones being "white rabbits"), but better safe than sorry. Non-movie-goers might not know WTF I'm talking about, which is a common experience in my life. Heh.

-Pinky &amp; the Brain. Aaaand EVEN MORE RANDOM.


End file.
